


Dance with a Demon

by filthy_rat



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Incubus McCree, PWP, Witchcraft, cis female reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-19 04:11:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12402723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/filthy_rat/pseuds/filthy_rat
Summary: You are a witch's apprentice, and you've always been careful with your magic. But everyone's entitled to a little recklessness once in their lives, right?





	Dance with a Demon

**Author's Note:**

> Incubus!McCree's design is based on tumblr user otherwindow's edits, with some minor changes. Enjoy~

Magic can be dangerous and oh, how well you know it.

Too often you have seen the troubles that come when the unprepared attempt magic they can’t control. Such catastrophes you have witnessed in your short time as a witch’s apprentice. Usually, you’re cautious with your magic. Your master is tough, but fair, and you’ve learned a lot underneath her expert tutelage, but… even the cautious give in to the occasional curiosity.

It’s supposed to be easy, the other apprentices said while you all caught up over coffee, to summon a demon and bind it. All it took was a few easily acquired ingredients, the right sigils, and the correct incantation. The rest of the day, your mind is consumed with thoughts of your own personal demon to command.

You wait until your master announces one quiet, full moon night that she is leaving and will not return for a fortnight. It’s an expected announcement, but you still can’t stop your anxious heart from hammering as you help her pack her things. Tonight will be the night. Are you really sure you want to do this? You think on the next two weeks of utter solitude in the witch’s hut, practicing incantations, warding off spirits of the desert, and mixing potions for witless townsfolk.

Your mind is made up.

As you watch your master shrink into the moonlit scrublands from the door of her little shack, your fingers close around the necklace you wear. A small lump of pure silver ore, tied with simple hemp. A protective talisman that will come in handy should your spell go awry.

You close the door, seal it magically against unwanted visitors, and begin setting up your summoning ritual.

You find one of your master’s large tomes, thumb through it to find the correct sigils for summoning and binding, and draw them in chalk on the weathered wooden floorboards. The tome, however, does not specify any ingredients. You retrieve your smartphone from your bag, open up the Witch’s Brew app, and quickly search for summoning. Summon friend, summon enemy, summon servant… Frustration rising, you amend your search to “demon summoning”.

_1 Result Found._

This list of ingredients is more difficult than originally anticipated. The acromantula venom, hanged man’s bone, wormwood, oak ashes, and virgin’s blood you could get, but where are you going to find dragon liver at this hour? On a Wednesday? And where are you going to get… you squint at the screen, unsure if you’re reading this ingredient correctly. _Men’s cologne?_ Crestfallen, you slump into the overstuffed armchair by the fire, and put your phone back into your pocket. So much for that plan.

But wait… didn’t your master have a cabinet of ingredients she kept under lock and key? And you _have_ been practicing your magic breaking skills… A cunning, sly grin on your lips, you leap up from the chair, and kneel on the floor. Twitching aside the woven rug, you find the cellar hatch and press your palm to it. Deep within your bones, the magic from your master’s spell seeps into you. It’s strong, potent magic. She really doesn’t want you getting in there.

Tough.

Closing your eyes, you extend your aura into the darkness, finding the slight tendril of magic that connected to the sealing spell, and latch on. Muttering incantations under your breath, you undo the magic, unravel the spell. With a tiny shattering sound, the magical seal is broken. Grinning triumphantly, you grip the heavy iron ring and heave the hatch open. The hatch gives a low, squeaky groan in protest. It’s been years since this door opened. The musty scent of cellar dirt fills your nose as you descend the rickety wooden staircase.

A single frayed string dangles from the lightbulb in the ceiling. You give it a tug and it promptly snaps. Now you can’t reach it to turn it on. Cursing under your breath, you fish your phone out of your pocket, and turn on the flashlight. Hand-built wooden shelves, laden with mason jars of different sizes, line the tiny cellar. Some of the jars look older than you are. You walk slowly down the length of one, wiping away thick layers of dust and cobwebs so you can read the labels.

Pig gizzard. Nirnroot. Belladonna. Vampire fang. Werewolf fur. Nightshade. Worm’s wort. Ghost essence. Minutes tick by as you search, and at last you find what you are looking for. Tucked away in the opposite corner is a large jar holding what looks to be rich red meat that shimmers unnaturally in the light of your cell phone. The dust settled around it looks recently disturbed. Had your master used dragon’s liver? As you slide the jar from the shelf and tuck it under your arm, you wonder what exactly she could’ve used it for.

Adrenaline once again sparking through your veins, you carefully collect the rest of the ingredients. When all is gathered, you return to the main room of the little shack, and place them in the center of your chalk sigil.

In a bowl made from the skull of an ox, you begin mixing. First the leaves of the wormwood, crushed into a powder with a pestle. A few drops of acromantula venom, some chips from the femur of a hanged man, a pinch of ash. With a deep breath, you take the silver knife and drag the raw sharp edge against your palm. A few droplets of red drip into the bowl -- blood of a virgin.

Now… the cologne. You had forgotten all about it. You get to your feet, tying a cloth around your hand to stem the bleeding, and hurry into your master’s private bathroom.

Even though you know she is gone, you can’t shake the feeling that there are eyes on you as you search through her things. The feeling of _intruding_ invades your mind, but you push stubbornly past it. You’ve come this far. Just when you are beginning to lose all hope of completing your spell, you spot a palm-sized spray bottle half full of amber liquid tucked behind some salves in her medicine cabinet.

Gently, you pull the bottle out. The label reads, clear as day: Stetson Original. Some distant part of you wonders _why_ your master has this, but you’re too excited to question it any deeper.

Grinning like a fool, you race back to your bowl of ingredients, and add a splash of the liquid to the mixture. It smells remarkably clean and herbal. Isn’t this shit supposed to be for cowboys? Weird. The candles are lit, the fire extinguished. The room is bathed in a warm, romantic candlelit glow.

Referring to your Witch’s Brew app again, you quickly find the correct words to say over the mixture. _To be said in a breathy voice, like spoken to a lover._ You stare down at the instructions, blinking. Okay… This is a really weird spell. Sudden doubt creeps into your mind. What if this is a horrible mistake? A thousand worse-case scenarios flood your thoughts, each more horrible than the last. What if your master comes home early? What if the demon is too powerful to control? What if you just _set fire_ to the cabin with all these damn candles lit at once? Panic threatening to drag you down, you sit up straighter and shout into the void..

“ _NO!”_

A mysterious breeze shudders through the cabin. The candles flicker. Unease still clutches at your heart, but you summon the strength to squash it. You’ve come too far to stop the spell now, and if you waste the materials, you’ll feel even worse. You’re _doing_ this.

You lift your phone and look at the words. You wet your lips, and begin to speak. The incantation is old, but you barely stumble over the archaic language. The words sound almost _melodic_ on your tongue, half-whispered and intimate. When the spell finishes, and the room goes quiet, you wait in the semi-darkness with bated breath. The seconds tick by…

Suddenly, all of the candles are extinguished as if by a ghostly hand, bathing you in complete darkness. Your panicked breath comes in sharp, ragged gasps. Eyes wide, you watch the shadows of the room flicker and slowly melt together like a pool of water in the center of your summoning sigils. They coalesce and take shape, rising upwards into a column. As you leap to your feet, electric adrenaline snapping you to attention, the candles reignite themselves.

“Aaaaaaaah,” sighs a deep, husky voice, emanating from the man-shaped column of shadow. “Well, well, well. What do we have here?”

A pair of hellish glowing eyes open on what would be the face of the shadow creature. Four long, wickedly pointed horns sprout from the head, and the rest of the details materialize from the smoky shadow. It takes the form of a man, but unlike any man you’ve ever seen. There are few features you recognize -- the pointed goatee, the long black hair tied in a tail, the metal rings in his nose, ears, and nipples. Dusty purple and pinkish scales cover his naked torso, and a fiery orange stripe runs the length of his muscular stomach. Wrapped around his waist is a red loincloth, and where a normal pair of human legs would be, he has instead furred cloven hooves. A long, sinuous tail swishes behind him.

When he opens his mouth to flash you a devious, hungry smile, his sharp canines glint in the flickering candlelight. A thrill of recognition surges through you.

“You’re. You’re not a standard demon. Y-You’re --”

“An incubus, I think is the word you’re lookin’ for, sweetness,” says the demon, and his voice is unearthly. Like there are multiples of it, layered over top of one another. Somehow all the same voice and yet different simultaneously. The sound of it sends a little shiver down your spine.

Your heart turns to ice in your chest when you realize that your binding sigils will not be powerful enough to control a demon like this. He might be magically held here until the spell wears off, but he will _not_ be taking any of your orders. Suddenly you become _very_ aware of the keen razor claws tipping every one of his ten fingers.

Looks like you both came to the same conclusion at the same time. The demon’s eyes flick down to the sigils draw in chalk under his hooves, and then back up to your face. A positively _indecent_ smirk curves the creature’s lip, and he begins slowly advancing towards you. His hooves tap softly on the wood with each step, his head cocks to one side, his tail swishes from side to side, like a cat’s.

“D-Don’t touch me,” you say, taking a step back, but your voice falters. A low, unearthly chuckle escapes the incubus.

“Now, now, pumpkin, you the one that summoned me. Ain’t that my job to touch you?” he asks, grinning wider than a jack-o-lantern, and extends a sharp hand towards you.

But when his fingers get within a few inches of your skin, it’s as if an invisible hand halts him. Teeth clenching around a frustrated snarl, the incubus pulls his hand back, looks at it with a furrowed brow, and attempts to touch you again. The same result. His fingers are unable to make contact with you at all. Both of you simply stare at each other in complete confusion.

And then it clicks. With a gasp, your fingers fly to the lump of silver ore tied around your neck, and now it’s _your turn_ to grin.

“Ha! You can’t touch me as long as I wear this,” you exclaim, showing him the necklace.

With a disinterested snort, the incubus rolls his eyes and turns away from you. Slowly he strolls around the room, taking in the shabby furniture, the cobwebbed taxidermy, the dried herbs tacked up to the wall, the faded portraits of witches long dead. He leaves ashen hoofprints on the rug. You watch him, fascinated by his every movement, as he drinks in his surroundings. Now that the danger is over, curiosity burns within you. Questions bubble to the tip of your tongue, a fact he quickly picks up on just from glancing at you.

Exasperated, he folds his arms over his chest and saddles you with a glare. “Hurry up and ask whatever it is you’re dyin’ to ask, then.”

Face red, you blurt out the first thing you can think of. “Uh... w-what’s your name?”

The demon stares at you in open disbelief. “My name.”

“Please.”

The ‘please’ is what really catches him off guard. He blinks several times in rapid succession. With a snort, he shakes his head a little, as if to clear it, and approaches you. Already, the easy-going facade has fallen back into place. He smiles, crooked, toothy, sharp, and it almost reaches his eyes.

“The name’s McCree, darlin’.”

“McCree? That’s a pretty normal name for a…” The word ‘demon’ dies in your throat when you realize just how close he is now. He’d probably be touching you if the necklace would allow. Those glowing yellow eyes study your face with such intensity and such raw desire, warmth blossoms in your cheeks, and you have to avert your gaze. A quiet, rumbling chuckle escapes him.

“Well, you’re certainly a lot nicer than my last master, that’s for sure,” he mutters, cocking his head to one side as he studies you. “But now you got me here and with that little thing ‘round your neck, sweetheart, I can’t do my job.”

Confused, you look back up at him, brow furrowed. “Your job?”

“I thought you apprentices were supposed to be smart,” replies McCree, a wicked grin curving his lips. The glint of those sharp teeth in the candlelight sends another shiver down your spine. “Yes, my _job_ , sugar. Incubus, remember?”

A hot flush crawls across your face, all the way up to your hairline, when you realize exactly what he’s referring to. _Oh_ . You have to admit, the prospect of a night underneath him is tantalizing indeed. He’s certainly not _unattractive,_ even if he is half goat. For a few moments, your gaze roams shamelessly across his torso, drinking in the details of him. The purple scales dotted with darker spots of inky black, the pierced nipples, the wicked horns that crown his brow. Your mouth goes suddenly dry as your gaze meets his.

“All you gotta do is take off that little piece of silver, darlin’,” McCree whispers, leaning down to the cusp of the magical protection. “And all this is yours. C’mon, now. I ain’t gonna hurt ya.” A smirk curves his keen mouth. “Not unless you want me to.”

Goosebumps ripple across your skin at the timbre of his voice. Your fingertips touch the piece of silver at your throat, but your eyes remain transfixed on his face, on those entrancing eyes. He does have a good point. You summoned him here, didn’t you? What’s the point of going through all this if you weren’t going to take advantage?

“...I’m not really sure I can trust you.”

“Mm, I’m not really askin’ you to trust me, am I, baby?”

Another point. Your fingers close around the silver nugget, and with a quick tug, you break the hemp string that holds it to you, and the protective spell breaks with it.

It’s as if time restarts. In the blink of an eye, McCree closes the short distance between the two of you, a growl escaping from deep within his chest. Like a ravenous wolf, he lays claim to your mouth with lips and tongue and teeth, his sharp hands eagerly drawing you into his vice-like embrace. All you can do is cling to his armored chest, mind reeling with sensation. His teeth bite down, surprisingly gentle, on your lower lip, and you moan helplessly into his mouth.

“Now that’s what I like to hear, sweet thing,” McCree growls, as his lips move to your jaw and then your throat. The drag of his deadly canines against your pulse point sends an electrifying jolt through your entire body. You draw a sharp hiss of breath through clenched teeth. A low, husky chuckle answers your gasp.

“Why don’t we continue this elsewhere, pumpkin?” he whispers in that unearthly voice of his, and without another word, scoops you into his strong arms and cradles you against his chest. The ease with which he hefts you is both terrifying and _incredibly_ arousing. You stare at his face with wide, entranced eyes. The silver talisman slips from your fingers and lies forgotten on the weathered floorboards as he carries you into the other room.

“I trust you have your own bed in this shack?” McCree asks, arching a curious brow at you.

“Um. Well. I do, but. It’s sort of small… Maybe we could… uh… in my master’s bed?” Your cheeks feel as if they could set fire to the whole cabin with the heat they’re putting out.

“Ohhh, I see how it is,” he says with a chuckle, turning towards the larger bedroom. “Here I thought you was just a meek little thing, but you got a naughty side, don’t ya?”

“Maybe… do you intend to find out?” you reply, as he lays you on the simple cotton sheets of your master’s king bed.

“I sure as hellfire do, darlin’.” McCree is atop you now on his hands and knees, his warmth and weight pressing you into the mattress. His kisses burn deliciously. You feel lightheaded, your heart pounding in your chest. In the darkness, his blazing eyes emit a soft, warm glow that draw you in like a moth to a flame. One of his furred legs slides up between your thighs, teasing you with its closeness. His keen mouth finds your neck, trailing hot kisses down your skin. “Mm, ain’t you just a _gorgeous_ thing. I am one lucky devil.”

“I thought --” you interrupt yourself with a shocked gasp as his clawed hands impatiently rend your t-shirt in half to expose you to the cool air. The bra doesn’t last long, either. Instinctively, you cover yourself with your arms, but McCree isn’t having it. His hands grasp both your wrists and press them to the mattress above your head, firm but gentle. Swallowing hard, you begin again. “I-I thought demons were supposed to be --”

“Incubi are different,” he says between kisses. Scorching heat seems to chase his touch. “When we’re summoned, we just know what our masters… _need_.”

“And _this_ is what I need?”

Lifting his head from your shoulder, his blazing eyes flick to the palm that you cut in your ritual, now wrapped with a bloody bandage. “Looks like that question just answered itself,” he says softly, and captures your lips in another kiss.

More questions burn at the back of your mind, but now McCree’s mouth his forging a trail down the length of your torso. Down your collar bone, between your breasts, across your stomach. His hot tongue washes over a nipple and then its twin until you writhe with pleasure. When his hands leave your wrists, you automatically reach out and grasp his horns. They’re surprisingly smooth, like a stone from a riverbed.

In surprise, he grunts and pulls away slightly, looking up at you with a bewildered expression.

“S-Sorry, is that… wrong?” you ask, releasing them quickly.

“No, no, just…” His brow furrows. “Do whatever you want, sweetness. It’s what I’m here for.”

Hesitantly, your fingers curl around his horns again, thumbs stroking the smooth surface. A low moan escapes him, surprising the both of you. Does he… _like_ that? Judging from the deep burgundy flush to his cheeks and the ragged quality to his breath, he _does._ Experimentally, you run your hands up the length of his horn and watch his jaw muscle jump. Another low groan escapes him as you move your fingers to the other set of horns. Fascinated, you watch his tail twitch with every movement of your fingers, listen to him muffle his groans with your stomach, feel his claws draw faint red lines down your hips.

“Enough,” he snarls at last, more out of frustration than anger, and his hands make quick work of the buttons on your jeans. Hooking his thumbs in the belt loops, he slides them down your legs slow, savoring the reveal. Murmuring words you can’t hear, he presses kisses to each piece of skin exposed, and your breath hitches every time. When your jeans reach your ankles, he pulls them off, and tosses them onto the floor.

“Mm, you look good enough to eat, sugar,” growls McCree, and as if to prove his point, he drags his forked tongue slowly across his lips. “In fact…” His clawed hands nudge apart your thighs. A hot blush erupts across your body, and you cover your face with your hands.

“Y-You don’t have to --”

“Hey now,” says McCree sharply, eyes flicking up at you as he settles his long body between your legs. “I just wanna see if you taste as sweet as you look.” His thumb pulls aside the crotch of your panties and he dips his head to follow through on his word. His tongue drags a slow swipe along your folds, testing your reactions. A low, soft whine answers his attentions.

“McCree!” you gasp, as he presses his tongue deeper into you. Never before have you experienced such a sensation. A soft groan that you _feel_ rather than hear escapes him and you answer it with a moan of your own. McCree’s arm winds around your thigh and hip, holding you in place as you writhe and arch. For a moment or two he continues, dragging breathless moans and whines from you with every swipe of his tongue.

With a chuckle, he lifts his head, licking his lips. “So _squirmy,_ ” he says softly. “Never had this either, sweet thing?”

“N-No…”

“Mmm, well. That’s a shame because…” he presses a kiss to your inner thigh. “You…” Another kiss. “Are…” Another. “ _Gorgeous_.” With a low, feral growl, his mouth descends on your slick sex again, ravenous for another taste of you. With his tongue and lips, he winds you up until you whimper. Your trembling, twitching fingers find his horns in the darkness, curling around the smooth points and caressing. This time, McCree does not pull away. He groans raggedly against you, sending vibrations rippling, and you can barely even _think._

Suddenly the pleasure crests and it keeps cresting. Thighs tensing, you moan out his name as your orgasm overwhelms your senses. With his arm wrapped around your thighs and hips, you can’t move far, but _fuck,_ that’s not gonna keep you from trying. And McCree doesn’t stop with one, oh no. His tongue continues on, circling your clit with such finesse that your leg spasms, and another immediate wave of pleasure makes you twitch and convulse. You cry out, gripping his horns like a lifeline.

When the second orgasm leaves you, and you fall limp upon the mattress to breathe, McCree relents. He lifts his head with a positively _indecent_ smirk, and licks his mouth with that wicked forked tongue.

“Shit,” you whisper, covering your face with your arms to hide the rising blush.

Grinning wide, he crawls towards you, settling at your side with his arm draped over your waist. “Incubus, pumpkin. We’re pretty good at this kinda thing,” he chuckles.

Slowly your pulse returns to normal, as does your breathing. You lower the arm covering your face to find him watching you. There’s a strange intensity to his glowing eyes that you can’t quite name. You roll over to face him, unsure of where to put your hands, but knowing you want to touch him _somewhere_. You settle for hesitantly placing them against his chest. He’s so warm to the touch, like holding your hands too close to a bonfire. Your fingers slowly trace the bony ridges along his chest and stomach.

When he dips his head to kiss your lips, you shift, sliding one hand down to the red loincloth around his hips. When your fingertips brush against the hardened peak there, however, he jerks away with a startled hiss.

“I’m sorry,” you say, covering your mouth with your hands.

“What’re you doin’, sweetheart?” he whispers, brow furrowed.

“Well. W-What about you?”

“What _about_ me?” he asks, nose wrinkled in confusion.

“I want to --” By way of explanation, you reach down to his loin cloth and gently brush your palm along the outline of his stiff cock.

Immediately, he moans and squeezes shut his eyes. You pull aside the loincloth and chance a glimpse down at him. Now, you don’t pretend to have an extensive knowledge of this sort of thing, but you’ve watched porn. The man is… _thick._ In the low light you can’t make out many details, but you can feel the slight ridges to his shaft and a thrill shivers through you. You glimpse a glowing line running the length of him. Slowly, you curl your fingers around his cock, grip loose and soft, and stroke. McCree moans your name, his sharp hands clutching desperately at your waist. You tilt your chin up, capture his mouth in a kiss, nibble gently on his lower lip. He groans.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re a lot different than my last master. C’mere.” He rolls onto his back, bringing you with him, and settling you astride his hips.

“Different how?”

“Nicer, for one… Softer with me,” he says, pulling himself into a sitting position so he can kiss your neck. He drags his fangs across your throat and you shiver. “Prettier, too,” he adds, after a moment of contemplation. He smiles, his stubble dragging gently against your skin. Goosebumps chase the beard burn.

“McCree…” you whisper, tilting your head back to allow him better access to your throat.

“Mm, and my name sounds so much better when _you_ say it, sweet thing. Let’s get these out of the way...”

A sound of ripping fabric follows these words, and you look down quickly to see his claws literally tear your underwear off your hips. He tosses the scraps of fabric away carelessly, and again brings his eager mouth to your throat.  His hard cock presses against your inner thigh, serving as a reminder.  

“Are you ready, sugar?”

A shudder of anticipation ripples through you. “ _Yes_.”

Murmuring encouragement, he leans you forward on your palms and takes himself in hand. Slowly, he guides his cock into your slick entrance. You’ve heard that the first time always hurts, but when he slides home with a shuddering growl, the only thing you feel is pleasure. It takes only a moment of adjustment before he’s fully enveloped inside you. His girth fills every inch. The feeling is… beyond description. Experimentally, you roll your hips against his, relishing the sensation.

He hisses through clenched teeth. Clawed fingers bite into your hips as he squeezes. “Nngh, you better just ease up there, darlin’,” he growls, eyes flashing. “Or this party’ll be over before it’s even begun.”

“Is that okay?”

“Better than okay… so fucking good,” he says, his voice a low rumble. You are _fascinated_ by the way his jaw muscle clenches around his words. “Just. Just gimme a -- aah!”

No, no, you need _more_. Again, you roll your hips, hungrily watching his face contort with pleasure. With a ragged moan, his head falls back against the pillows. His hands clutch at your hips in desperation. Slowly you start a rhythm, bracing your weight on your palms so you can kiss him. Each hard, rough press of your lips to his steals your breath from your lungs. Eagerly he responds in kind, groaning against your mouth as you ride him. When you move your hips a little faster, he pulls back with a snarl.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he says. “Shit, y-you feel -- _fuck!_ ” All of his seductive eloquence is lost now, driven from his mind by your movements and your body. He pulls back a hand and slaps your backside _hard_. You gasp with pleasure and shock, and a wicked grin curls his lip. Again and again he spanks your ass, until your skin is tingling and red. He squeezes, claws digging shallow red furrows, and the pain only brings you closer to release.

Everything is too much, too good, _too hot.._. McCree guides your body in just the right way, letting his cock find those places inside you that have your toes curling. The edge is already hurtling towards you at full speed. Judging from the way his moans are rapidly transforming into feral, breathy snarls, his release is not too far away, either. His sharp mouth is everywhere at once -- your lips, your throat, your shoulder. He bites down, you cry out, and a distant part of you relishes the thought of your skin bearing his marks.

“Fuck, darlin’, gonna _come_ ,” he hisses. “Oh, don’t you stop, sweetheart, don’t you _dare…_ ”

His arms wrap around your waist, holding you firm against his chest while his hips thrust upwards. He muffles his pleasured growls with your skin, biting down hard on that apex where your neck meets your shoulder. _Mine. All mine._ This is the final piece of the puzzle.

With a shuddering groan like a caged beast, McCree slams into you once, twice, three times more, and holds you against him. Both of you find release at the same moment. His cock pulses within you, each throb almost burning with pleasure. Waves of ecstasy have you rendered immobile, gasping and shuddering atop him. After what seems like forever, you finally droop, spent and boneless, against him. With your cheek pressed against his warm chest, his heart pounding in your ear, you feel warm and ironically enough, _safe_. His arms coil around your waist.

“...Well, shit,” McCree whispers, when he has breath enough to do so. “That was… different.”

“Different how?” you mumble, already drifting off into sleep. He’s _so warm_ and his heartbeat is better than any lullaby. With surprising tenderness, he strokes your back and sides.

“...Doesn’t matter,” he says, and shifts you off his chest until you’re laying on the bed beside him. In the darkness, his eyes give that same warm glow as they regard you with an almost tender look to them. “Get some sleep now, sugar.”

“Are you going to be here when I wake up?”

McCree doesn’t answer, but he pulls you into his embrace, tucking your head beneath his chin. Softly, he hums a melody that seems both familiar and alien. His unearthly voice lends a beautiful haunting quality to the tune. You fight sleep for a few minutes more, listening to his song. Eventually, sleep claims you, and you drift off into a dreamless slumber.

You are awoken the next morning by the sounds and smells of breakfast cooking. Bacon sizzling, the clink of mugs, a quiet conversation, fresh coffee being poured. With a soft sigh, you sit up and scrub sleep from your eyes with your fist. You’re in your own bed, and someone has dressed you in your pajamas. McCree? Reluctantly, you stand and head into the kitchen. And what a sight awaits you.

Your master has returned. Wrapped in her warm knit shawl and holding a cup of tea, she stands in front of the stove, poking a frying pan full of eggs with a fork. And sitting at the little table, wearing what looks to be a spare pair of your sweatpants, is McCree. In his clawed hands, he holds a mug of steaming black coffee, and there’s… a familiar necklace strung around his neck. Your silver talisman. But it’s not burning him? Are you imagining this? Dreaming, maybe?

“What’s… going on…” you say slowly, tearing your gaze from McCree to look at your master.

McCree looks up, his face lighting up at the sight of you. “Good _morning_ , pumpkin!” he says with unbridled enthusiasm, jumping to his feet, pulling you into his arms, and pressing a swift kiss to your lips. Though not unwelcome in the slightest, your face does burn when you remember your master is standing mere feet away. When he pulls away just an inch, he smiles, forehead pressed against yours. Still as warm as ever. His tail wags happily.

Your master turns to watch the little display, an amused smirk on her weathered old face. Of course, the eyepatch always makes it hard to tell for sure what she’s really thinking. “Good morning, apprentice. I trust you slept well?”

“...Am I in trouble?”

A bark of laughter escapes her, and she turns back to the food. “No, I don’t think so. Fetch some plates, would you?”

More out of habit than anything else, you scurry towards the cabinets to obey, but McCree gets there first. He shoots you a little smile and a wink as he collects three plates from the cabinet. As your master serves eggs and McCree places strips of bacon onto each one, you can only stare at the pair of them in complete confusion. What the hell is going on here?

“I summoned a demon. Without permission. I stole supplies. I used all your good candles. And you’re telling me I’m. Not? In trouble? Somehow?”

“Sit down and I will explain,” the old witch says patiently, pushing a plate of food into your hands and gesturing to the table.

Slowly, you obey, sinking down into your usual chair. Anxiety gnaws at your stomach instead of hunger. McCree sits beside you, hands you a fork, and promptly digs into his bacon. His tail swishes happily behind him. This has got to be the weirdest goddamn breakfast you’ve ever had. Even weirder than the time your master had a river spirit guest. That thing just stared at you, judging. Reluctantly, you poke at your bacon, but your eyes remain transfixed on your master’s back.

Eventually, she joins the table with another mug of coffee for you. “My dear apprentice. Do you really think this was all a coincidence?” she asks, lifting her tea cup to her lips and smirking at you over it. “That I just _happened_ to have men’s cologne and dragon’s liver ready for you to find?”

_Holy shit._

“This was… all set up?” you ask, eyes flicking from your master to McCree, who smirks.

“I may be an old woman, child, but I know how to check internet history,” the witch says with a chuckle. “You’ve been positively _obsessed_ with summoning spells lately and I knew those talkative apprentices had convinced you to try it.”

“Did you know about this?” you ask of McCree.

“Not till she explained it this mornin’,” he says, mouth full of egg and bacon. “I knew I was gonna have to leave and… I-I didn’t want to.” His cheeks flush dark purple and he averts his gaze from yours. “She came in not long before dawn and offered a deal.”

“A deal?”

“Yes, he allowed himself to be bound. For you,” the witch says, and takes a sip of her tea.

Eyes wide, you stare at McCree. Tail twitching, he shifts uncomfortably in his seat, cheeks still flushed, but he’s at least looking at you now. In his eyes, you see anxiety, worry, embarrassment… But _hope_ too. Your heart flutters.

“For me? Why?”

“Ain’t nobody ever treated me like you did last night, sweetheart,” he says, voice quiet and heartfelt. “I wanted to stick around, see if we could…” he trails off, brow furrowed, but his meaning is clear.

“And this?” you ask, touching the silver talisman around his neck. “I thought --”

He grins. “Silver can’t hurt demons, darlin’. That’s why I was so confused. She had enchanted it, in case I was… _unfriendly._ She really did think of everything. Thought it looked mighty fine on me,” he adds, taking a sip of his coffee and smirking across the table at your master.

“But why did you do this for me, Ana?” you ask, tearing your gaze away from McCree to look at your master.

She smiles at you, warm and matronly, and sets her empty teacup down on the table. Gently, she takes your hand in hers and squeezes it.

“You are _lonely,_ child _._ Living with an old woman as your only companion in the middle of nowhere is weighing on you. McCree will be a fine… _friend_ for you.” Her emphasis on the word ‘friend’ makes you both flush. “He is not a slave, he is not a servant. He is a part of this family now, and will be so long as he wishes it.”

There are tears in your eyes. You jump to your feet, cross to Ana’s side, and throw your arms around her in a tight hug. Sniffling, you bury your face into her snowy white hair. “Thank you, Ana.”

She chuckles warmly in your ear and gives you a little squeeze around the middle. “You are very welcome, my dear. Now,” she says, gently disentangling herself from your embrace and holding you at arm's length to smile at you. “Let’s finish our breakfast. It’s been _years_ since I’ve had sunnyside-up eggs.”

And your family, plus one new member, settles down to breakfast.


End file.
